Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. “I was frightened then,” she declared. ” He left off abruptly. 1. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. “Absolutely,” the doctor answered, “and the sooner the better.
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